Empty Books
by ShadowKatCrossing
Summary: What made Captain Betty so spiteful towards books? Books were his passion and his knowledge, yet when he needed answers the most all he found were empty words.


Disclaimer: I do not own Fahrenheit 451 or any contained therein. They belong to the amazing science fiction writer Ray Bradbury.

The room was draped in chilled darkness, filled with the overpowering silence of hundreds of thousands of books gathering dust. Beatty reached out his hand to turn on the light, but his muscles tensed, hovering mere centimeters from the switch. Conflicted, he stood there until time trudged its feet onward and the hush of a million pages beckoned him to make a decision.

With a lurch he flipped the switch, squinting as light pounded on his eyes. As his eyes adjusted, he drank in the sight of cherry-colored bookshelves, lined with books of all sorts. How many centuries were contained in that room? How many words cried to be heard?

Beatty dragged himself over to the nearest bookcase. Shakespeare, Dickens, Tolkien, Sophocles; behind each tome there was an author with life-changing ideas, fighting to be read, to be understood. So many voices, so many opinions! Yet, strangely, Beatty no longer comfort in the thought of it.

That made him start with surprise. When did books stop being ambrosia to him? What made the room, once his safe-haven, become so cold, so devoid of life? A face popped into his mind, its soft, delicate features hardened into a gaunt mask, as pale and unfeeling as the walls around him. And who could forget what went with that mask; the piercing sound of shattered glass breaking into a million pieces, unable to spill the contents inside, as they were already gone. By the time Beatty got to her, she was completely still, the breath long escaped from her.

That night was forever ingrained into Beatty's skull, hammering at him. She's dead, she's not coming back, she's dead. But, honestly, who's to say that she wasn't already dead before? He couldn't forget the weeks of her chosen seclusion, never seeming to eat, the empty look in her eyes. Those eyes; they used to be full of elation as they found new books, took walks around the neighborhood despite the whispers from their neighbors. Now those empty, bottomless pits tore at Beatty, stripping away years of contentment and threatening to hold him captive in their misery.

Beatty pounded his fist on the edge of the shelf, clenching his hand as it bit into them. Why hadn't he noticed it sooner? How did he remain so oblivious? His head sagged between his shoulders as awareness dawned on him. Books. It was always books. He worshipped them like a naive child, trusting that they held the answers. Yet, that trust blinded him, took her away from him.

With that last thought, Beatty sunk to the floor. A muffled sob burst from his throat. Where were the answers now? Where was the comfort, the light?

Ripping a book off the shelf, Beatty scanned the pages. Words upon words filled his sight, but nothing filled the emptiness that gnawed at him, consuming him; unseen, unrelenting. Where were his ever-present quotes, one that could settle any dispute, put to ease a restless mind?

He felt a surge of anger rise up in his chest. What was the point of all these books, if none of them had the answer? His eyes became unfocused with rage as he ripped pages upon pages from there cover, the yellowing pages tearing and dancing around him like ghostly confetti. Standing up, he threw himself against the bookcase until it crashed onto the floor. Again and again he toppled the cases, felling the crashing vibrate through his body.

Soon Beatty had all the books piled into the center of the room, the lights casting strange shadows on the crumpled heap. For a moment, he felt a twinge of doubt. How long had he spent collecting those books: years, decades? But those books are all empty, he reminded himself.

That brought a new surge of anger as he pulled a matchbox from his pocket. Striking a match, he gazed at the flame, marveling at the kaleidoscope of colors and shades it produced. Snatching a book off of the pile, he gently hovered the pages above the glowing flame.

He was surprised at how quickly the fire took, turning the page into whitening ashes. Quickly, Beatty walked around the pile, striking matches and tossing them into the mound of books. It felt good; like he had a purpose. Watching the pages light up and then crumble gave him a twinge of satisfaction.

Soon though, the acrid smoke was steadily billowing, causing Beatty to calmly vacate the house. Stepping onto the driveway, Beatty was vaguely aware of the biting chill attacking his face and arms. He was more focused on the spectacle before him; blazing proudly was the house never meant to burn. He stood there as the house filled with memories and feelings of a decade became a hollowed, blackened shell.

All of a sudden, Beatty felt a tap on his shoulder. A man in a thick uniform, blackened and smelling of kerosene stood at his shoulder with his hand outstretched.

"Hello Beatty, I'm Captain Riley. We've been keeping an eye on you for a while, but me and some other interested parties were wondering if you would be interested in joining the firemen. So what do you say?"

Beatty knew all about the men who started fires. He also saw the glint of a challenge in Riley's eyes. Beatty knew that if he agreed, he would be binding himself down with rules and standards that he once fiercely opposed. Sure, the change might be difficult, but looking back at the empty house, filled with the ashes of empty books; Beatty decided that nothing he could do would make him even emptier inside.

Reaching out, Beatty grasped Riley's hand. Pulling away, he examined the small metallic box that had been placed in his palm, a salamander engraved on the edge.. Flicking open the lid, a flame emerged. Beatty clasped the lighter in his fist, and walked away from the dying fire behind him.


End file.
